


chasing the light until the dawn

by pendules



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 23:38:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendules/pseuds/pendules
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Harry's in an indie rock band and Zayn's a solo R&B artist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	chasing the light until the dawn

**Author's Note:**

> For Linna, the R&B!Zayn to my indie!Harry. :) Kind of inspired by The Weeknd, especially [this doc](http://www.mtv.com/videos/misc/953544/road-to-release-travelling-through-unknown-territory.jhtml#id=1713754).

Harry loves his music a year before he finds out anything about him. Maybe he's just shy or media-phobic or maybe it's something else. He's intrigued, yes, which is the point, he supposes. But part of him doesn't want to know. Right now, it feels like it just belongs to him. And all he has is this voice and these words and some immense, gut-wrenching pain. And it's all he needs. So much of what people sell is themselves these days, their face and their clothes and their fucking hairstyle and not the music. He kind of wishes it could've been like that for him. Because there are too many teenage girls with his face on their bedroom walls who don't know what the fuck he's singing about. And yeah, maybe he's always wanted people to like him but he wants them to listen to what he has to say too. Maybe people always take artists more seriously when they're aloof or closed-off or just plain dicks. It makes them want to see what's behind that, what caused it. It makes them interested. It's all just bullshit though. None of them are that complex or unrelatable after all. That's not what music is about at the end of the day. It's just about expressing all the things other people feel but can't put into words.

Zayn sings all these songs about being afraid to let people in and releases them under this shroud of mystery. No one knows what his real name is. Or what he looks like. When he finally reveals himself, Harry wonders why someone with _that_ face would ever choose to hide it. He wonders who hurt him so bad.

The first time he meets him is at one of Nick's parties. They're finally back at home after touring in America for months. Nick and Louis are doing their usual thing where they steadily get more and more drunk and toss insults at each other all night until they end up fucking in the coat closet. Harry's given up on trying to get them to admit that they're totally fucking in love. He thinks it might be worse if they did because Louis pines incessantly whenever he's on tour and in a relationship. It's why none of them have ever lasted more than a couple months. And Nick is even worse at anything long-term. And if they do break up, Harry will get stuck in the middle and it'll be a disaster. These so-called casual hook-ups are best for all involved. He's kind of scared they might eventually realise on their own though.

Niall's chatting with Ellie, arm around her, sitting way too close, and apparently _that_ 's been going well at least. Harry needs brain-bleach for all the Skype calls he's walked in on on the bus. 

He's just caught sight of Liam and he's about to go over and say hello when he sees who he's talking to and stops dead in his tracks.

And shit, that one blurry pic online does not do him justice in the slightest. His hair is dark and shiny and soft-looking, precisely chaotic, his eyes are bright and he's wearing thick-rimmed black glasses and tiny silver hoops in his ears, a day's worth of stubble on his face. He's shorter than Harry, skinnier, but something about him makes you stop and stare. Like he has the most commanding presence in a room full of personalities. It's because he's the only one not trying so hard. He catches Harry's eyes over Liam's shoulder and stops in the middle of a sentence which causes Liam to turn around.

"Oh, hey, you're back." He smiles at him.

"Yeah, got in this morning."

"And you're already partying it up."

"Well, they'd revoke my rockstar status if I didn't," he jokes, shrugging.

Zayn's just been looking at him the whole time quietly.

"Oh, sorry, Harry, this is my old friend, Zayn."

And of course Liam's been keeping his secret friendship with Harry's idol from him this whole time.

"Yeah, I'm a big fan." He extends his hand.

"Likewise," he says, taking it.

And that's not entirely surprising but it still sort of catches him off-guard anytime someone he admires likes his stuff, even when it's not the guy he’s been falling asleep to almost every night for the last six months.

"Loved the last mixtape," is all he can manage.

Zayn gives him his first real smile and his eyes get impossibly brighter.

"I was at your show in LA. You guys killed it."

Liam's just glancing between them now looking way too proud of himself. And there's no way he planned this, is there? No fucking way. Harry doesn't get set up by his friends with people he's maybe half in love with already. Harry has drunken hook-ups in pub toilets after shows with people he can't remember in the morning. He hasn't had a real relationship since he was at college, not counting that mess with Cara that should have never happened and barely ended with them still friends. Mostly for their mutual friends' sake. Nick likes reminding him how terrible a decision that was anytime he gets a chance. It's probably why he's holding off on this thing with Louis. He doesn't want to put Harry in the same position he was in. Of course, Louis's too damn stubborn to make the first move. Harry just wants them to be happy, really, even it means his life being unbearable. Sometimes he wonders if all his friends are going to grow up and commit and leave him all alone. It's scarier than it should be.

But Zayn's looking at him and it's not over, not yet, they're still young and the world's still theirs, and so he says, "Hey, wanna get a drink?"

"Yes," he answers at once.

*

So having sex with someone whose music you've imagined having sex to is pretty surreal.

"Are you going to write about this?" he asks, staring at the ceiling.

He can feel Zayn smirking in his direction. "Would you have a problem with that?"

"I don't know, maybe," he says, absentmindedly.

"That's not fair though. _All_ your songs are about sex."

"There's a difference between singing about fucking and singing about fucking _someone specific_."

Zayn actually laughs then, rolls off the bed, grabs his pack of fags from the inside pocket of his leather jacket where it fell (read: was ripped off) last night. He leaves the sliding doors open as he goes out onto the balcony and the cold air floats into the room, making his naked skin shiver. He can see Zayn's silhouette leaning against the railing and he's only wearing underwear and Zayn's always so warm even when Harry's freezing. He kind of wants to call him back to bed, or maybe go out there, press his chest up against his back, rest his chin on his shoulder as he smokes, wrap his arms around his waist loosely, trade body heat back and forth. But that - this isn't _that_. That's always been clear. It's just - Zayn's in town for a week and he doesn't really know anyone here besides Liam and Harry's restless and bored and Louis and Nick have actually been spending time alone together doing things that are _not_ fucking and he's not good with this, with being alone in an empty house, with staying still for more than a moment at a time. 

So Zayn is his adventure, for now, for this one week. And he's happy to be that for him. 

His hotel room is probably more lived-in than Harry's house, to be honest. There's shit everywhere, books and CDs and pages and pages with scratched out lyrics and doodles and ashtrays overflowing onto the floor and coffee cups stacked on every available surface (half of which are probably his). It's almost like a uni dorm room or living in a studio. He supposes wherever Zayn is becomes his studio. He's working on the artwork for his album and he leaves cigarette ash and charcoal stains on Harry's skin after. Sometimes he draws on Harry with marker while he's sleeping, tracing patterns around and between his tattoos, and it turns the water black when he showers later. 

They don't talk much. Harry wants to ask him when he got all his tattoos and what it was like when he was a kid and who that first mixtape was about. Because the first one is the most important, and maybe he'd laughed but it _is_ different when it's about someone. It doesn't belong to you anymore; it belongs to _them_. And that's a big price to pay; it's like they're still taking things from you, still ripping your lungs out, years and years after. Harry doesn't want Zayn to write about him. Not ever. He doesn't want to take any of his art from him. The first was the most visceral, it felt like it came out because it _had_ to; the second was more calculated, more reflective, more about his life and wanting fulfillment and not knowing where to look; the third was the one where he tried to put it all back together and failed, it's about drunken hook-ups and not regretting them and giving up not being about weakness but _strength_. 

Harry was pretty fucking terrified of how much he could relate to that.

*

"What's it going to be about?" he asks, the last night.

"What?"

"The album."

"It's not done," he says, simply.

"But you have to _know_ , I mean -"

"It - it doesn't work like that."

"How does it work then?"

"How does it work for _you_?"

"I don't know, I just come up with something I like, a lyric or a melody or an image, and it pretty much just goes from there."

"It's not that easy for me," he says, almost like an apology.

They don't talk about it again.

Harry doesn't see him again after that. Their time's run out.

*

It's stupid. He's on the other side of the fucking planet and when he closes his eyes, all he sees is how Zayn's profile had looked with the sun rising behind him.

He wonders how he'd look in the Australian twilight, travelling in a bus on a road to nowhere, sleeping behind his sunglasses, lying on a beach while the water comes up to touch his toes. It's stupid and ridiculous and he'd known him for a week and touring isn't as great as it usually is. Everything's duller somehow, the colours and the lights and the cheers from the crowd and the sound of his voice. Singing the same thing every night gets boring, yes, but it's never been like this before. It feels like he's spitting out words that were written by someone else; he's not that person anymore. He's older and tired and everything about his life that used to be exciting just makes him feel numb. It's not the songs or the people or the places. It's _him_. 

He picks up this blonde in a bar and it's just a distraction because he can't fucking stop thinking about honey-brown eyes, thick, dark eyelashes, a sharp jaw and soft, soft lips.

One of his songs is playing in his head the whole time.

*

Harry doesn't even look at the number, just answers it to stop that godawful ringing.

"So who was she?" 

"What?"

"Or was it a he? I just figured from your history, it's more likely to be a girl -"

"Zayn, what?"

"You left me a message."

And oh, fuck, he was sure he'd dreamt that one.

"Whatever I said, can we just agree to forget about it."

"Or I could sell it to the tabloids," Zayn says, which means it's forgotten.

"So how'd you know about the girl? I can't remember mentioning that part."

"I just assumed. You were obviously drunk and not happy and let's be honest, I'd do the same even if I knew it wouldn't make anything better."

Harry covers the speaker and lets out a groan. _You though. You could make it better_ , he wants to say. He doesn't really know if that's true though. He's always been good at wanting, craving, needing things that aren't good for him.

"I miss you," he says, and that's vague enough. _I miss your mouth_ or _I miss your hands_ or _I miss your smell_ or _I miss fucking you_ or _I miss watching you fall asleep, because it made me feel like everything would be okay, like the world could stay still for a moment and it wouldn't all come crashing down._

"Yeah, I hope I see you soon."

And then he's gone.

*

"I drunk-dialled Zayn," he tells Louis, lying on the couch basically upside down, hair almost touching the floor.

"What? Zayn who?"

"Zayn Malik. You know."

"Liam's friend? The one with the album you drove us insane with in America?"

"Yes," he sighs.

"You fucked him?" He whistles under his breath.

"God, don't say it like that," he says indignantly, sitting upright now.

"What, you _didn't_?"

"Okay, fine, I _did_."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you were busy with Nick," he says, making a disgusted face.

"Oh, it was _that_ week. We were _quite_ busy."

"Please don't go any further."

"So, you fucked him and he left and then you brooded about him for a month until your subconscious decided to do something about it? This isn't exactly new territory, mate." He gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

"It's not - It's different. Those other things were just passing feelings. This is something else, something real."

"How do you really know that though? I bet you felt the same about all those other 'passing feelings'."

"I can't just not see him again. I don't think I could survive that." His voice kind of trembles a little as he says it.

"Oh, poor baby," Louis says, full mama-bear voice, and then hugs him.

*

They're in LA after the tour, recording some new stuff, and it's been hard this time, writing on the road. Usually he's inspired by everywhere they go and everything they do but it's like he hasn't been seeing any of it, like it's not getting inside him, like it's being obstructed by something else. Someone else.

Then Liam calls and says he's in town and he's got tickets to Zayn's show and they should go and Niall of course says, "Fuck yeah, mate," but Louis just gets really quiet and looks at him.

He shakes it off, says, "Yeah, that'd be cool."

*

He really couldn't have prepared himself for this. He plays all the songs that make him want to just melt into his voice and when he gets to that bit in his favourite one, he infuses it with that tiny ounce of extra emotion and Harry pretty much can't take it.

And then when he thinks it's gotten as bad as it could, he says, "The next one is a new one. And it's about that time between midnight and dawn when you start wondering about all the choices you've made in life and if they were really right."

And Zayn didn't write about him. Not really. He doesn't hear himself in the words, he only hears Zayn, and it's a rare gift. He's taken it back, taken back the control and the power, back from anyone who's ever hurt him, anyone who's ever left, anyone he's left behind, all the nameless, faceless people he's surrendered himself to and then forgotten. And it wasn't strength after all. That's what this album is about: admitting his weakness, admitting when he's wrong. 

The last line is: _I'm sorry I met you when when I wasn't looking for you._ And that's straight out of his voicemail, he's sure.

It's over and the crowd deafens him and he just stands in the same spot, looking at Zayn but seeing someone else.

*

"Hey, I'm in the lobby. Can I come up?"

"Yeah, okay."

*

This room is so different. It's clean and bare and feels cold and empty. It's not Zayn's; it doesn't feel like he belongs there. 

"The album's done," he says.

"I can tell." He sits on the bed carefully. Zayn's standing by the window.

"It's just that one song," he promises.

"I don't mind. It's a great song. But who are the rest about?"

"People I should have written songs about years ago."

And then Harry just starts talking. All the things he'd been dying to tell him, things he's never told anyone because no one could understand before Zayn. "I dropped out of uni after a semester and moved to London. I thought that was it, you know - that I'd be playing fucking Wembley right out the gate. It doesn't work like that, I found out pretty early on. So I waited tables and bagged groceries until by some fucking stroke of luck, someone signed us. And then I left and went around the world. I didn't come home for _two years_. I didn't want to at all. I just wanted to do that forever. But then you do go back and nothing's the same - everyone's moved on without you. You like to think you've left a gap but maybe the gap's really in _you_."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I'm done with the different fuck, different city every night bullshit."

"You're a poor excuse for a rockstar, mate," he says smiling at him like he had the first night.

"I know."

"We don't even know each other."

"I know. But you wrote a fucking future Grammy-winning song for me."

"It's not _for_ you. It's a reminder of all the things I could have had."

"You still can have it," he says, almost pleadingly. "Just _take_ it."

"I think I need some time," Zayn says.

Harry just looks at him for a moment, tries not to let his heart break too much, and then he nods and walks away.

*

He comes home three months after and Zayn's waiting outside his front door.

"How -?"

"I have a Google Alert for you, okay," he admits grudgingly.

Zayn standing around in his spotless, hardly-used kitchen is a pretty weird sight. Harry's so used to seeing him surrounded by his own art and his own world and all the things that are an extension of himself. This is all wrong.

"I need to sell this house." 

"What?" Zayn asks, surprised.

"Never mind. What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to talk to you. We didn't leave things very clear last time. Or _I_ didn't anyway. I just -"

"You just what, Zayn?" And it's been exhausting, the last couple weeks; he's never done that before, put it all on the line for someone, trusted himself so much, trusted himself to know what he wanted. He just needs to know. Whatever it is, he'll deal with it. Just knowing that he did it, he took that risk, is worth it, really.

"I just want to try to make this work," he finishes.

"Yeah?" Harry says, eyes wide, unbelieving.

"Yeah."

*

His phone rings at around 2am and when Zayn looks at the screen, everything just _changes_. His expression, his body language. He's suddenly so tense after being so relaxed and open and content. He just gets up swiftly and goes into the bathroom.

From what he gathers, it's his sister and apparently his mum had seen him on TV and there's a bit of crying and Zayn's apologising a lot - for something, for something big, something _bad_.

"Hey, you okay?" he asks, when he comes back out, hoping that his voice conveys the fact that he doesn't have to tell him if he doesn't want to; he's here either way.

"Yeah," he says but it comes out raw.

Zayn sits at the foot of the bed, and Harry sits up properly, moves a little closer so he can rest a gentle hand on his bare shoulder as he starts talking.

"I left home when I was sixteen after I fucked a boy for the first time. I think I left so they wouldn't have to kick me out when they found out. I lived with this guy for a couple years, and it fucked me up pretty bad. Just being so young and so trusting that you never, ever expect it - And then you grow up, all at once, and wonder how you ever could have been so fucking stupid."

"You weren't, Zayn. None of us ever are. It's easy to feel like that but it's not your fault. The world should be so much better but it's not." He shakes his head out of frustration and anger and helplessness.

Because Zayn is the most beautiful person Harry's ever met and he shouldn't be so scarred. He shouldn't have enough pain to fill up dozens of discs and notebooks. It shouldn't overflow from his skin like black ink and ash.

"It doesn't matter anymore. I'm moving to LA. I'm leaving in a couple days." And he's standing up and walking away like he could get away from _this_ too, his story and his heartache.

But Harry's following him across the room. 

"You can't just leave everything behind whenever you want to. It only makes you empty." And Harry's only now realising that himself, and it took way too long.

"You think you know me because of my songs," he says, turning back to look at him, and it's spiteful and he doesn't mean it. He's just angry. He's just - damaged. They both are. That's why they're here.

"Don't I?" Harry whispers, taking another step forward.

"You should come with me," he says, voice low and bold.

"What? Zayn -" But then he's kissing away all his protests.

*

"What's keeping you here?" he asks later, cheek pressed to Harry's chest, and he almost can't find a reason. His friends, his family… But he's hardly ever here anywhere. It wouldn't matter much and the boys have talked more than once about how much easier it'd be if they were based in LA.

"I could stay right here forever," he says, a non-answer, but he's never even thought that, not once in his life.

*

When he wakes up, Zayn's pulling on his jacket.

"Hey, are you leaving?" he asks, warily.

"Yeah. I'm going back home."

"And after that?"

"I don't know. It depends on what happens next, really."

"I can't just - I can't just leave everything and move away with you." And he hates this. Hates that he's had him for a week and a night and maybe that's all he'll get now. That it was all just a dream.

"Yeah, I know."

*

Zayn sends him a copy of the album. The cover is just a simple black and white drawing, the curvature of a back no one else would realise is his own, and dark wings drawn with such an extraordinary amount of detail that it's almost like he could reach out and touch them.

There's a note stuck to the disk inside: _there's only one thing i ever regret letting go._

*

He doesn't leave. Well, not yet anyway. The album comes out and it's a huge hit and Harry listens to him perform it in venues small and large all across the country. And he doesn't have to imagine it anymore, what being on the road with him would be like. Because it's amazing and comforting and feels more like home than the house he just sold ever was. And maybe they can have it: a different pub in a different city every night. But all they need is each other now.

They're in this tiny, pretty village in Scotland and looking out at the water, he knows Zayn is thinking about exactly how he would paint it. Harry's writing a dozen songs in the back of his mind. They're all about finding things you never thought you needed at the most unexpected of times in the most unexpected places.

"We should get a cabin here or something - fish for our dinner, live off the land," Zayn says and maybe it's a joke but it's the first time he's brought it up again, living together.

"I'll go wherever you want to go," he says, taking his hand, because he means it now. Will always mean it.


End file.
